


Imperfect

by ifear3



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Crying, Grieving, Hammie needs a break tbh, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Not biological though, PTSD, Washingdad, damn we really do write fanfiction about the founding fathers, guys washingdad is my everything, historical accuracy can suck my-, washington is a dad, what a time to be alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifear3/pseuds/ifear3
Summary: Emotions are tough; ask anyone and they’d agree. Especially Alexander Hamilton, basically the god of bottling up his shit until it explodes at the worst of times.George Washington thinks he’ll never learn.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> What time is it? Show time!
> 
> Get ready for angst fuckers

Washington knew something wasn’t right almost as soon as he saw Hamilton.

The look in his aide’s eye was nothing short of distant, thoughtful in a way that was more melancholy than simply vacant. It was a familiar expression to Washington. His men wore a similar glaze in their eyes after a hard, lost fight: hopeless, exhausted. It was the easiest way to tell that something hadn’t gone exactly as planned when men reported back.

So when Alexander entered his quarters, this unfocused look on his face, Washington couldn’t help but offer a concerned glance. Of course, it went unnoticed.

“Your Excellency, sir”, a weak salute, a prompt bow, “I’ve a letter here from Congress. Addressed directly to you.”

“Good morning, Hamilton. Thank you”, he stood to grab the envelope from his right hand, carefully tearing it open, more just to fidget than to actually read it right then. He gazed down as he worked the paper apart. “Alexander, I must ask that you sit and confer with me a moment. I would like to discuss with you- Hamilton?”

Slowly looking up from the letter, Washington realized he was talking to air. He blinked in surprise; the boy really had just come in, handed George a letter and then walked straight out.

He stared at the entryway, lips pursed, head slowly shaking. Perhaps his aide was just tired, something that really could never surprise the general. Hamilton was a non-stop kind of man, thoughts a constant hurricane in a void of intelligence and passion.

That was alright. Washington would simply convince him to rest later.

-

All morning he worked, writing, planning, and desperately attempting to keep up with the never ending demand of the revolution. Around noon, when it was getting to be a lot, Washington called for a meeting with his aides; they were to discuss strategy, their next move in advancing.

The meeting went extremely smooth. His men conversed, almost amongst themselves before deciding to share over the table. Hamilton sat by his side, quietly taking notes.

_ Quietly  _ taking notes.

“My dearest Alexander, forgive me, but usually it’s a job to get you to close your mouth. Surely you’ve some input?” He could hear Laurens say clearly from across the room, but from the glint in his eye Washington could tell he was concerned as well.

Hamilton let a small grin grace his thin face, an attempt at reassurance. When he next spoke his voice was soft and slightly distracted. “Of course. I was only writing some things down.”

-

Later that evening, when the moon was already high in the sky, Washington took a break from working. He and John Laurens got a drink, voices hushed as they talked about this and that, most of it more or less insignificant. They talked and sipped on their drinks until Laurens was letting out quarterly yawns.

“Go get some rest, John. And tell Alexander to do the same, if you will.”

Laurens smiled a little. “If only it were that easy. I could quicker convince a brick.”

Washington couldn’t help but grin back. Yes, that was his Alexander. His stubborn, diligent, idiotic, intelligent Alexander. “Ah, believe me, I know. I don’t doubt that you’ll at least try, though, so get going.”

He nodded. “Goodnight to you, sir.”

“Goodnight, Laurens. Sleep well.” After the aide left, Washington had nothing to do but resume his work. There were only a couple more things he planned on doing before retiring himself. Just two more letters to add to the growing stack of papers upon his desk and then, finally, the sweet lulling arms of sleep could embrace him.

He was still writing the first letter when Hamilton burst in.

They both started in utter surprise. Frankly, Washington would’ve reprimanded the younger boy if not for the wild look in his eyes.

“Sir! I- I- I was just- I didn’t know you were in here, I’m so sorry!” Before Washington could intervene, Alexander continued his panicked ramblings. “I can explain, see, I like to walk after dark, c-clear my mind, I like to see everything when it’s all still, nothing going on, I can’t believe I wasn’t watching where I was walking, where I was entering, I was deep in thought, sir, I- I promise I wasn’t- I…”

He watched silently as Alexander trailed off, discomfort evident in his body language.

Dear God, Washington thought as he looked on at the boy. His dear Alexander, usually so sharp and attentive, so well-spoken, confident, suddenly comes in spluttering about how he didn’t even realize he’d walked into the general’s tent? It was odd in a million different ways.

Awkwardly, Hamilton turned and started towards the way he came, tired of the silence and unable to take the shame. George stopped this endeavor by barking a short “Alex.”

Reluctantly, he turned back around, eyes trained to the floor.

Washington let out a small sigh before speaking again, taking up a softer tone of voice this time. “It’s alright, Alex, really. I don’t blame you. I do the same sometime… walk at night, deep in thought.”

The boy still wouldn’t look up. He fidgeted silently with his hands.

“Alexander. Are you alright?” Nothing. “Son?”

Hamilton flinched, backing just a little closer to the door.

Washington stood and slowly walked over, shocked by the way his aide was acting. Worry pooled in his stomach as he approached, a hand outstretched.

“Alex…” he spoke barely above a whisper as he placed a hand on the boy’s bony shoulder. It wasn’t until he got closer that Washington realized his boy was shaking, and that tears ran down his smooth face.

Alexander suddenly let out a quiet sob. “It’s too much.”

“What’s too much, son?”

“Everything. It’s all just  _ too much. _ ”

George rubbed patterns in the orphan’s tense shoulder blade, listening as Alexander stifled more sobs. The boy had a hard time getting any more coherent sentences out, so Washington just shushed him, holding his small frame to his chest. He felt a pang in his heart as he wrapped an arm around the shaking boy, never really having seen him this upset before. The general didn’t speak again until Alex had calmed down a little. 

“Alexander, son...” Washington’s voice was kind and soft. “What’s the matter? Why do you weep?”

A moment of silence. Two.

“I… am not completely sure, sir. I really can’t explain it very well.” His voice sounded utterly exhausted as he talked. He continued with a deep sigh. “Sometimes everything just catches up. All the feelings I put to the back of my mind, the ones that seem to disappear only when I write or do work. But they’re still there, and they like to remind me.”

“What kind of feelings?”

“Feelings… like…” Alexander trailed off, but George didn’t mind. He knew that the only times Alex tripped over his words were in times of great stress and discomfort. If the boy was distressed about the topic, Washington knew it was better to let him take his time than to press him.

“It’s mostly grief. I’ve lost many… but never have I properly grieved. It comes back in the least ideal of times.” A pause. “But also stress. From work, from home, I ignore it until it gets to be so much that I can’t any longer.” He looked down, embarrassed.

Washington didn’t answer right away, attempting to gather his many thoughts. He couldn’t say it was necessarily  _ new _ information… he could’ve told anyone that Hamilton wasn’t very good with death. The boy simply didn’t know how to stop and accept it, instead choosing to ignore it, let it fester inside until everything was much worse.

For example, after thousands of men died in a massacre, Hamilton was the calmest. He only seemed upset weeks later.

And, of course, his aide was notorious for his work obsession. Ask anyone, really, it went without saying.

Washington just hadn’t known about the extent to which these issues existed. Lord, this boy fought as hard in his own head as the general’s men on the battlefield.

“God, son. You must learn better habits. I understand that you are grown, but I cannot watch you tear yourself apart. Perhaps a trip back home-?”

“No!” Alexander pulled away, expression slowly turning from panicked to apologetic. He next spoke with a quieter tone. “No, I… I need work. It’s the only thing that can possibly keep me sane.”

“Son, surely that’s ridiculous, what you need is  _ time.  _ Look at yourself, I just can’t have you here like this. Don’t you understand?” He fixed the smaller man with a firm stare. “It will do you good.”

Alex bowed his head, knowing the argument was over. He didn’t seem to have the energy to debate. “I’m assuming I will leave tomorrow morning, sir?”

“Yes. But for now, please go rest. You’re tired.”

Alexander looked up at him, eyes sparkling with weariness and a little sadness. Despite this, though, Washington could tell his aide was more attentive and at ease after getting those things off his chest. It made him feel relaxed too, knots of worry undoing themselves in the general’s gut.

“Goodnight, sir. I… apologize for all of that.”

“No need to apologize for something like this, son. It was no trouble. I would rather be sure you’re alright than be left to my work.”

Hamilton turned away with a muttered “thank you, sir” before dismissing himself promptly. Washington didn’t stop him. He knew well that Alexander was probably embarrassed about the whole experience, and wouldn’t be thrilled to talk about it for a while now. In the meantime, though, the general could only hope that the poor boy had something to ground him other than work. Washington realized he’d soon have to write to Eliza, tell her that her husband is not to work at all while he’s at home.

Maybe she won’t even be able to stop him, George thought, slightly amused. He hoped that wouldn’t really be the case.

But alas, that was just his Alexander. His messy, workaholic, emotional, unstable, imperfect Alexander.

**Author's Note:**

> Four words: hate history, love Hamilton. Did you really think I’d do any sort of boring ass research for this?
> 
> (Aka, If something is technically wrong, I apologize. I don’t know why I talk like a passive aggressive piece of shit all the time, ignore me)
> 
> Seriously, though. I could not be bothered to look at time frames or even talk in old English. Then again, though, the actual musical wasn’t even accurate to that extreme so maybe it’s fine? Idfk I’m new to this fandom
> 
> In conclusion, hope this was moderately enjoyable. Bye now.


End file.
